His thumb hovered over the controller. He could feel the plastic grooves, worn smooth by years of teenage rage and adolescent escape. This machine had been a time capsule. And now it was open.
He stared. Another box.
"NOT THE GAME. THE NIGHT."
The boot screen crackled. The silver PlayStation 2 logo swirled, but the music underneath it wasn't the usual chime. It was a low, reversed piano chord—like someone playing a recording of a funeral backwards.